


Comfort and Guy

by libertyelyot



Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV, Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Angst, Bound to be some BDSM at some point, Christmas, F/M, Romance, Smut, nothing too heavy though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libertyelyot/pseuds/libertyelyot
Summary: The festive Victorian AU mash-up of BBC Robin Hood and North & South you never knew you were longing for (I didn't know myself until this morning)
Relationships: Guy of Gisborne/Marian of Knighton
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	1. Will You Tolerate This

**Author's Note:**

> It's the most wonderful time of the year - the time of the seasonal urge to write festive fic
> 
> I don't question it
> 
> I'm just going with it
> 
> Come with me!

If there is one good thing to be said about the cold, it is that it puts an end to the worst of the pea-soupers; that season of coughing through the grey-greenish fug succeeded by sharpness and frost. There is an iron cast to the sky. ‘Looks like snow,’ observes the boy I buy a poke of chestnuts from at the corner of Gower Street, and I suspect he may be right.

The streets around Holborn are busy, their golden gaslit windows filled with the fruits of the season – plucked geese hanging like long-necked sacks; string bags bursting with nuts and oranges; brightly coloured tin soldiers and toy theatres.

Once I grew old enough to leave off playing with those toy theatres myself, I would come with father and buy dozens of dolls and clockwork engines to distribute at the annual Christmas party at St Botolph’s. This time last year, we would have been on our way, our carriage bowling us towards that nexus of streets running up from the river which was our responsibility and livelihood.

But those days are gone, and the best I can afford now is a net of spoiling clementines from a Covent Garden back alley.

‘You needn’t ‘ave,’ says Sally Britten, seizing them from me as I cross the threshold of the St Botolph’s church hall. ‘But God bless you, Miss Hale, all the same. I know things ain’t what they were with you and your pa. How’s he holding up anyway?’

‘He is well,’ I say, my words reaching the ears of a jumbled assembly of local souls, seated on trestles with cups of weak tea provided by the vicar’s wife. ‘Or at least, as well as can be expected.’

‘Crying shame how he was pushed out,’ speaks up one of the company. ‘Ned Hale is a good man. And there ain’t many landlords in this town as you can say that of.’

Above a murmur of agreement, I thank the citizen for her sentiment and ask how life has treated them under the new proprietor of their neighbourhood.

The mutterings grow dark, the expressions bitter. Tea cups are cast down, heads shaken, arms folded, lips pursed.

‘New man’s put all the rents up,’ says Sally. ‘Half of us can’t pay and those what can can’t barely afford food or coal for the fire. We’ve got till Twelfth Night, he says, before we’re out on our ears.’

‘But that’s awful.’ I stare at Sally. Neither father nor I had been happy with the Duke’s choice of new steward for his lands, but we had not expected this cruelty. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘What can we do?’ Sally shrugs. ‘Says we’re lucky to get Christmas with a roof over our heads and we should be thankful to him.’

‘What about your work?’ I suggest, scouring my mind for alternatives. ‘Can you ask for a wage increase?’

Scornful laughter causes me to regret my impulse of optimism.

‘He’s got some lackey in to manage the blacking factory,’ says Sally. ‘And a nastier piece of work you’d have to go a long way to find. He’s sacked a lot of the best workers, replaced them with young nippers – don’t have to pay ‘em as much, see.’

I put a hand to my mouth to cover my appalled gasp.

‘I should never have stayed away for so long,’ I sigh. ‘Had I known... I knew that the Duke wanted more revenue from his lands but I thought he would protect his tenants...that Mr Vaisey was hired for his City experience and his knowledge of property law. Oh, this is dreadful! Father will be horrified. What can we do? How can I help you?’

‘No, miss, you’ve got troubles of your own,’ soothes Sally. ‘With the old master’s health and all.’

She is not wrong; my previous description of my father as ‘well’ was something of an overstatement.

The meeting falls to despondent silence, interspersed with the peeling and eating of oranges. There are some tears, some words of comfort. Sally tries to lead us in the singing of a Christmas carol, but nobody has the heart for it. Our gathering disperses into the submersive gloom of the London afternoon.

‘Sally, I will walk with you back to The Crown,’ I offer, falling into step beside her on the pavement, now speckled with spots of icy rain.

‘No need, dear.’

But we walk as far as the blacking factory and stop, without intending to, at its gate, ‘Huntingdon and Sons’ arched above in black wrought-iron.

‘The Duke should come back and see how things are changing,’ I say, staring at its blank brick face. ‘I cannot believe he would approve of his brother’s management here. Vaisey raising the rents, child labour in the factory, families who have paid him rent for generations being forced out like this.’

‘Oh, the Duke,’ scoffs Sally. ‘He ain’t going to be interested, too busy sunning himself in Italy. Why would he come back to this? His no-good brother has got it all worked out, shouldn’t wonder if the Duke knows nothing about it.’

‘Well, he should,’ I say, although Sally’s words drive heartsinkingly home. The Duke isn’t a bad man, but he lives for idle pleasure and was never much interested in his property except as a way to finance his comforts.

‘Look, it’s getting dark,’ says Sally, drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders. ‘And these streets ain’t the nicest for a genteel girl like you. Get on home now, before the cutpurses come out to play.’

‘I hope I’ll see you soon, Sally,’ I tell her. ‘And I will think of a way to help you, I promise – I will put all of my mind to it.’

‘Well, that’s a lot of mind,’ says Sally with her deep chuckle. ‘Take care, my dear, and have a happy Christmas if I don’t see you afore.’

‘A happy Christmas to you too.’

I watch her bustle off to preside over her public house. Father has never really approved of our friendship, and I have certainly never been allowed to enter The Crown, but he knows as well as I do that Sally’s ample cleavage conceals a good heart.

I stand abstracted before the blacking factory for a good while, thinking of the small hands put to work therein, and the new manager of dark repute. I determine to search the library for a copy of the Factory Act, to refresh my memory of the law relating to the employment of children. None under nine, I know, and there are restrictions concerning the working hours of those under thirteen. If this new man is breaking the law, he will pay for it.

Whilst I am thus lost in thought, a small and ragged figure flits across the cobbled yard and I call to them.

‘Hello – do you work here?’

The child, no more than ten if my eyes do not deceive, wipes her nose upon her sleeve and comes closer, peering at me through the grit-grey gloom.

‘I don’t answer questions for less than a penny,’ she says, belligerent and stony-eyed.

I take a coin from my purse and pass it through the bars to her.

‘How old are you?’ I ask

‘Eleven, I think, maybe ten.’ She shrugs. Many of the poorest children have little idea of their date of birth, so I let her vagueness pass.

‘You must surely be one of the youngest at work here, then,’ I suggest with a confiding smile.

She wrinkles her nose at me. ‘Wouldn’t know,’ she says. ‘Don’t care to ask.’

‘But your gaffer treats you well?’ I persist. ‘You have time to eat and take rest during the day, I hope.’

She opens her mouth to answer, but before any words can come out, she is interrupted by a great bellow from across the yard.

‘Back to work! I don’t pay you to gossip, brat.’

The child flees and I step back from the gate, observing as I do so the tall, broad shadow of a figure hastening towards me with long stride and greatcoat streaming behind. As he nears me, the pallor of his face stands out in stark relief to his general darkness. His brow lowers over icy eyes and a sternly set mouth. For a vertiginous moment, our eyes meet and I have never had such anger and coldness directed towards me. I feel an uncharacteristic thrill of fear.

It takes me a moment or two to remember that I am under no obligation to speak with him, or even to remain where I am, and before he reaches the gate I turn swiftly, clamp my hand to the crown of my hat and point myself in the direction of Bloomsbury.

I do not slow my pace until I reach Gower Street. Only then do I dare to look over my shoulder, as if I have been pursued all this way by that hellhound in human form. But I have not, and I am alone.

The relief is so visceral that I have to sit down for a while on the step while my legs leave off shaking.

It is not like me to react in such a strange way. What has come over me?


	2. Let The Games Commence

‘Ah, Marianne, thank goodness you’re home.’

My father emerges at an effortful hobble from the drawing room as soon the door is shut behind me; as I untie the ribbon of my bonnet, he waves a thick rectangle of embossed card before my face.

‘What do you think, my dear? We are invited to a Shortest Day party.’

I frown at the card but it is too far away to make out the wording.

‘What a strange thing to want to celebrate,’ I remark. ‘The shortest day – the longest, darkest night. Who has invited us?’

This is indeed a question, as father’s forced ill-health retirement knocked us quite a long way down the social pecking order, and those doors that were once always open have been firmly shut ever since.

‘Well,’ muses Father, apparently in no hurry to enlighten me as to the identity of our host. ‘It’s not altogether without precedent – our medieval forebears, and those who preceded them, were wont to celebrate the winter solstice with a festival of light. It marks the symbolic death and rebirth of the sun. In several cultures...’

‘Yes, yes, Father, I understand, but where is this party, and when?’

‘Rather astonishingly, the invitation comes from Mr Vaisey.’

‘Oh, surely not!’

‘That was my reaction, but assuredly, the card says otherwise.’

And now it is close enough to read, and the curling silver script bears witness to my father’s announcement. First I frown, wondering at the meaning of this, then my eyes stretch wide.

‘But it’s tonight! We are to be there in a little under two hours. It can’t be done – what shall we wear? And my _hair_. And besides, it’s Vaisey. Oh, we shall have to decline.’

‘I’m afraid I sent his footman away with an acceptance,’ confesses Father, grimacing. ‘It would look churlish otherwise, you see. Much as I suspect he has had a last-minute cancellation and we are simply invited to make up the numbers. But Vaisey is a powerful man, with powerful friends, and perhaps, my dear...’ His voice stumbles and he looks away from me, at the miniature portrait of my mother on the hall table. ‘Well, perhaps it would do _you_ good to get out a little, meet some new people.’

‘New people, yes, new monsters, no,’ I say firmly, but I cannot stand against my beloved father, after all he has done for me, so I find myself promising to darn my silk slippers before retiring to my room to titivate.

Two hours later, we sit side by side, being jolted over slippery cobbles in the back of a hackney cab, which we share with a large lady clutching a mass of knitting to her lap and a pair of sly-smiling clerks. I seldom miss our old brougham but now is one of those times.

I hold a hand up to the side of my head, fearful that my hair will unravel at the next pothole. Somehow I cannot seem to replicate the tight loops and ringlets Liza would set so expertly when we could afford her. My blue satin, though old, is still a good fit, the lace only a little crumpled. My inexpert darning has left an unsightly bunch by my left big toe, but if I arrange my skirts just so, nobody need notice. And my mother’s diamonds can hold their own in any society – although, I do not wear them in the cab. That would be to invite trouble. No, they are in my Father’s waistcoat pocket, to be put on as we reach the steps of Vaisey’s abode.

The lion’s den.

I speak in my lowest voice to Father, unwilling to be overheard by our company.

‘You have met Vaisey, I think.’

‘ _Mr_ Vaisey and I became acquainted when I was required to meet him for the purpose of familiarising him with his new duties and responsibilities. We were always in the company of that dreadful lawyer of the Duke’s, and we kept strictly to business, so I cannot claim to know him well.’

‘But how did you find him? I have never met him and what I have heard is not promising.’

‘What you have heard, my dear? From whom?’

‘From our old friends and tenants. I was this afternoon at St Botolph’s and they are in a perfectly wretched condition, threatened with eviction if they cannot pay the ruinous new rents. It is wickedness. And as for the blacking factory...’

I take a sudden breath, the vision of that menacing silhouette advancing towards me across the courtyard robbing me of coherence.

‘Oh, my dear, I hope you are not going to make accusations tonight. Whatever you have heard you must keep to yourself until we may be in a position to make challenge. And we are not now in that position.’

‘But you should have seen them, Father, they were desperate. They will be destitute, at the coldest time of the year. It is inhumane in the extreme...’

My voice has risen, and the clerks and the knitting woman are transfixed.

I cough and fall silent.

‘Marianne,’ says Father, softly but firmly. ‘If what you say is true, then I will do all I can to help our old friends. But tonight, nothing can be done. Let us alight from this cab, put on your diamonds and think of no more than dancing and drinking toasts. Will you humour me in this? Just for tonight?’

‘Yes, Father,’ I sigh.

The cab puts us down at a corner of one of those leafy new squares on the far side of Westminster that have sprung up like so many wedding cakes in a confectioner’s window. The clean air and wide space make it seem a world away from the smoky, hugger-mugger city proper, but every fashionable family has made the pilgrimage west, leaving their old haunts to those who must needs work for a living.

Golden gaslight pours from the tall windows on to the railings and pavement below. Father adorns me with jewels and arm-in-arm we ascend the steps. If my hair falls out now, there is little I can do about it.

Footmen admit us, and a butler announces us into the sparkling bustle of a medium-sized ballroom. Sinuous music entwines a path between the dinner-suited men and low-cut ladies, champagne is flowing and I do not recognise a single soul. For a second, every eye alights on us, assessing us, looking for clues as to our value. Each one flickers briefly, then returns to its former focus. We have been judged summarily, and found worthless.

‘Ah, Hale.’ A squat, balding man weaves through the crowd, waving a cigar at us. For all his Savile Row cut, he reminds me of nothing more than a goblin, with a meanly mischievious glint in his eye. ‘Doubtless I’m mistaken, but was that a hackney cab I saw you pull up in outside?’

Discomfited, my father clears his throat, and I fix the man with my most basilisk-like stare.

‘Mr Vaisey, we are honoured to be invited tonight,’ says Father. ‘You have a most elegant home.’

‘Yes, it’s not the worst hovel in town, is it?’ He smiles wolfishly. ‘Though we’ve seen enough of those in our time, eh, Hale? And this...’ He cocks his head to one side, appraising me with pursed lips.

‘My daughter, Marianne. Allow me to introduce our host, Mr Royston Vaisey.’

‘Ah, Marianne, yes. Charmed.’ He puts out a paw and I am obliged to place my hand in it. He raises it ceremoniously – mockingly, as it seems to me – to his lips and holds it there for several beats too long. ‘Well,’ he says, finally releasing me. I have to resist the urge to reach for a table napkin to wipe off his residue. ‘I thought my humble gathering needed more young people, so you are most welcome. A belle for the ball. Ah, the Ford-Fotheringtons, please excuse me.’

‘He seems every bit as loathsome as I was expecting,’ I mutter to Father as Vaisey bows obsequiously to an ancient man with a diamond star pinned to his waistcoat. He didn’t bow to Father.

‘You should curb that tendency to make such rapid study of character in people unknown to you,’ tuts Father, but I can tell that he agrees with me.

‘It hasn’t let me down yet,’ I proclaim, accepting a coupe of champagne from a passing waiter. ‘One need only _look_ at a person most of the time. It’s clear that Vaisey is a repulsive individual, just as it was clear from a glance that the new manager of the blacking factory is an unconscionable villain...oh!’

For I have shifted slightly on my heel to spare my eyes the sight of Vaisey, and my new view, at uncomfortably close quarters, is of said manager of said blacking factory – and I need abandon any hope I might have had that he has not heard my intemperate words.

His jaw seems to vibrate with offence, his eyes boring down on me as he looms at my shoulder.

‘I beg your pardon, Madam,’ he says, dangerously low-toned, then the flinty stare transmutes into a flash of recognition. ‘But we have met, haven’t we?’

‘I, er, think not,’ I quaver, looking away for escape, any escape, and finding none.

‘Oh yes,’ he says, and I glean from his expression that his effort of memory has been successful. ‘Yes, we _have_. A word, if you please, in private.’

And before I can protest, a large hand alights upon my bare shoulder and steers me with confident ease away from the safety of the crowd.


	3. Dead Man Walking

‘What is your business with my workers?’

I am standing in a gallery overlooking the ballroom, concealed from it by a long rank of potted plants. Through their leaves, I can see milling, glittering crowds below, and the forlorn figure of my father, limping around the periphery, looking for me.

I turn back to face the imperious glare of my interlocuter.

‘You wish to discuss business,’ I reply, icing my words to disguise my nervousness, ‘when we have not even been introduced. Your manners leave something to be desired.’

I perceive the beginning of a snarl, then he masters himself and thrusts out a hand.

‘Guy Thornton,’ he announces. ‘Factory overseer and _unconscionable villain_.’

The heat I already feel in my face floods out to the very tips of my ears.

‘Marianne Hale,’ I muster, working hard to keep my tone steady. ‘Friend of the oppressed.’

He raises his eyebrows, his curiosity seemingly piqued.

‘Hale, you say? You are the daughter of...’

‘Edward Hale,’ I confirm. ‘I know your blacking factory. I am on close terms with a dozen of those poor hardworking people you replaced with children. Their thanks for all they brought to the factory is unemployment and destitution. You are no Saint Nicholas, Mr Thornton.’

‘Nor have I ever claimed to be,’ he says, reverting to his initial annoyance. ‘But what I do claim to be is in charge of that factory and as such I will not have my practices questioned.’

‘You had better be working within the law,’ I warn him, my blood up now. ‘Or I will know of it, and so will the Duke.’

His reply to this is a scornful exhalation, not quite a laugh.

‘The Duke,’ he says mockingly. ‘Friend of yours, I take it?’

‘He is – not,’ I fluster, struggling to maintain my dignity in the face of his jeering smirk. ‘But he knows the law as well as any man, I hope, and would not see it broken in his territory.’

He bends his face to me, exuding intimidation.

‘You leave the law to the lawmakers, Miss Hale,’ he hisses, ‘and my factory to me. If you must do good, you can go and get up a subscription like any other idle young lady of your class, but do not interfere in what does not concern you.’

‘It does-‘ I begin to cry, but the music stops abruptly and I hear the tapping of spoon against glass, signalling imminent speech-making.

Thornton draws himself back to his full height, gives me one last piercing look and makes his return to the ballroom. I am so shaken by the undisguised venom of our exchange that I cannot follow him for a few minutes, by which time Vaisey is in full flow.

‘...the question has been asked,’ he is saying as I squeeze a path through swishing skirts to Father, ‘why a Shortest Day party? What is there to celebrate in entering the very depths of midwinter? Well, I reply to those questioners that darkness is underrated in our times. What is the source of its unfair reputation? Would we really want the sun to shine for every hour of the twenty four? What would the lamplighters and candle manufacturers do without it? Without night, we would have no day, and without darkness we would have no light. Therefore I ask that you charge your glasses and drink with me – to darkness!’

‘To darkness,’ echoes the room, with a few bemused chuckles here and there.

‘Speaking of which,’ continues Vaisey with a manic grin, ‘let us surrender ourselves to its dominion on this longest night of the year.’ He nods at a footman and suddenly, as one, all of the gas jets go out and we are left in the shimmer of candlelight.

But not for long, as pages and servants scurry around the room blowing them out as fast as they may. The company turns to consternation, people clutching hold of each other to avoid losing themselves, turning towards any source of light they can find, but soon there is none but the glowing moon shining in from the street. Not even that once the drapes are pulled close.

There is loud objection and one or two shrieks, over which I hear Vaisey laughing heartily and punctuating his mirth with cries of ‘Darkness! Embrace it! Accept it into your hearts!’

In the confusion, I keep hold of Father and try to find a corner where we will not be buffetted this way and that, or have our feet trodden on, but anarchy swarms around us, composed equally of hilarity and alarm.

‘Music! Dancing!’ yells Vaisey, and the musicians start up again, uncertainly at first but with growing confidence.

I sway in a sea of elbows and ankles and clashing perfumes, tripping this way and that as I try to keep Father and myself upright. I strain to remember where the sets of double doors are, leading to quieter anterooms, but I cannot get my bearings and the crowd closes in, trapping me in suffocating panic.

‘Marianne, Marianne.’ Father’s voice is weak, the way it was at the time of his last attack, and I tighten my grip on him and scream out, ‘Make way, make way, I beg you.’

But nobody knows how to make way – those that step in one direction are counterbalanced by those that step in the other – and I feel my Father’s arm shaking and his strength waning.

‘Please,’ I implore afresh, ‘my father is ill, we must find our way to safety, please let us through.’

Of a sudden, I feel a hand close around my elbow, a substantial presence at my side.

‘This man is ill.’ The voice is deep, authoritative and familiar. ‘You must make way, stand aside, NOW.’

His superior height and strength succeed where my efforts did not; the crowd falls away to let us through. We stumble, gasping and desperate, through an alleyway of tutting, wailing tiaras and sashes until the human thicket thins, then clears. Our saviour whisks us through dim space into quieter environs, eventually leading us through a baize doorway into blinding, blazing light.

‘Here, sit down,’ he commands, opening the door of a room that seems to be some kind of office. Father, grey-faced, sinks into a small leather sofa. Terrified, I look up at Thornton, who observes us, brow furrowed, from the doorway.

‘Help him,’ I beg.

‘There are doctors among the guests; I will have one come to you,’ he says.

After what seems an age, but is in reality no longer than a few minutes, a gaggle of dinner-suited men appear, with Thornton and Vaisey at their rear.

I step away to allow them access to my father, watching fearfully as they move him this way and that, listening to his chest and barking commands at the others in the room.

‘Let me help,’ I entreat, driven to distraction by the feeling of helplessness, but nobody pays heed. Nobody save Thornton, who suggests, quite gently, that I sit and take a tot of brandy. I let myself obey, let myself take the little crystal glass of caramel-coloured liquid and let it warm my throat until it conquers my shivers.

‘Have his carriage brought round,’ says the chief of the medical men. ‘He is well enough to go home, but must rest. Have his physician visit in the morning. You, you are his daughter, I take it?’

I nod.

‘Will you do as I have advised?’

‘We have no carriage,’ I whisper.

‘Take mine,’ says Thornton, disappearing to arrange it before I can make reply.

I see no more of him. Various of the doctors help Father to the front steps. Vaisey tails us through the house, grumbling at our effrontery in spoiling his evening.

‘I invited darkness,’ he complains. ‘Not _death._ Spectres are not welcome at the feast.’

These are his sole words of concern as I help Father down to the pavement and the waiting carriage. Thornton’s coachman takes us home and sees us to the front door, leaving in silence once we are in our shabbily comfortable hallway.

I lie awake all night, on a cot beside Father’s bed as he sleeps, listening to his breathing, waiting for a break in it. There is none, but while I keep my watch I see a thousand times the face of Guy Thornton, troubling me like a crossword cipher I cannot solve.


	4. Walkabout

Dr Redmond, grave faced, takes me aside on to the landing.

‘He stands a fair chance of recovery,’ the physician tells me, ‘but he is weak and will need nursing.’

‘I can-‘

‘Expert nursing,’ emphasises Redmond. ‘Now, I recall that after the last attack you turned down the Duke’s offer of a place in his convalescent home, but this time I think you must take it up.’

‘That offer still stands? My father is no longer in the Duke’s employ, you know.’

‘I know that, and I also know that the Duke undertakes to pay for the medical care of all his staff, whether current or former, when it is needed. That bed in the convalescent home is your father’s, Miss Hale, and he needs to be there. Will you let me make the arrangements?’

I cannot answer for a moment; it has not occurred to me that Father might have to leave our home, and I am thrown into disarray.

‘Of course, if you think it best, but then...for how long...and...’ I think of the plump goose I have ordered, the plum pudding and the brandy and the tree I had looked forward to decorating for him on Christmas Eve. Money now wasted, when we have so little to spare.

‘I imagine they will be able to call and collect him tomorrow,’ says Redmond, putting a consolatory hand on my arm. ‘As to how long he will be there, I hesitate to make a prediction. You may be sure that 1854 will be out and the new year in, though.’

‘Alone for Christmas,’ I say dolefully, immediately conscious of how childish my dismay must make me look in the physician’s eyes.

‘There will be Christmases more,’ he assures me. ‘ _If_ your father gets the rest he needs.’

‘Then there is no more to be said.’

I tend to Father all afternoon and, when I am not needed, I sit in my room toying with needlework, taking up a book and putting it down, trying to eat a bowl of bread soaked in milk without notable success.

Darkness falls but I am too listless to rise and light the jets. Father sleeps next door and I allow my eyelids to close, but as I do so, the face of a man forms itself in that tenebrous space, a face both malign and benign. I should send thanks of some kind, I realise without enthusiasm, but not...today...

I am awoken by a loud rapping on the door. I leap from my chair in confusion, wondering if the convalescent home could possibly be so quick in responding to Dr Redmond’s referral.

When I hoist open our heavy, somewhat damp-swollen, front door, I am confronted by that very face that has tormented me throughout the night and day.

‘Mr Thornton!’

He nods and removes his hat.

‘May I come in?’

I stand wavering on the threshold, too discombobulated to think for a moment or two, then I step aside.

‘Of course. Please excuse the darkness, I have been upstairs with Father all day and have not thought to...’

I rush into the parlour, lighting the jets with trembling hands while Thornton watches me from the doorway.

‘Please – take a seat,’ I offer, waving a hand at our threadbare furnishings.

Thornton, however, prefers to stand until I have finished lighting the room.

‘Some, er, would you care to take tea? Or...?’

‘That won’t be necessary. I have only come to enquire after your father.’

‘Oh, well, thank you. That is thoughtful.’

For the first time, I muster the courage to meet his gaze, which is steady and serious. I subside into the nearest chair, suddenly conscious of weakness in my legs, and he seats himself opposite, twisting his top hat in his gloved hands.

‘And you,’ he adds, then, at my frown of incomprehension, ‘I came also to ask after you, Miss Hale. You have suffered a shock, I imagine.’

‘Yes. Well – it was not the first attack, and Father’s health has been delicate for some time now. But yes. A shock. Call it so.’

‘But he will recover, I hope?’

I cannot reconcile myself to the strangeness of seeing this man sitting in our parlour. His face, which I had not been able to recall in fine detail, becomes more than an impression of flinty eyes and a strong nose framed in dark hair. It is a real face, the face of a real man.

I swallow. ‘The doctors give reason to be optimistic,’ I tell him. ‘But he will need time and care to recover.’

‘Care? You are – excuse me if I mention it but – there is nobody else in the house?’

I feel my blush at being exposed as a household too poor to employ staff. He need not feel sorry for us! I push back my shoulders and straighten my spine.

‘No, I manage the household alone. I am perfectly capable, I assure you.’

‘I did not say otherwise,’ he replies, lowering his voice in response to my asperity. ‘But you strike me as proud, Miss Hale. I hope not too proud to eschew help when it is offered in good faith.’

‘Proud?’ I am not sure whether to be offended.

He half-smiles. ‘Yes, proud. And spirited. But even the proudest and most spirited may find themselves in need sometimes.’

I think back to our exchange at Vaisey’s ball and chew my lip.

‘I think by spirited you might mean discourteous, Mr Thornton. But I feel strongly about certain subjects and will not apologise for it.’

His face darkens and his fingers tighten around the rim of his hat.

‘But I forget myself,’ I say hastily. ‘What I intend to say, most sincerely, is that I am so very grateful for the way you helped us last night. Without that help, it is easy indeed to believe that Father might not be with us this day. We are indebted to you, Mr Thornton.’

‘Yes,’ he says, rising to his feet. ‘You are. But I will not keep you further from your duties, except to say that, should your pride allow it, you know where I am to be found if that help is required again.’

‘Thank you.’ I show him to the door. ‘I only wish you were so quick to offer help to-‘

But my words are quelled by his thunderous mien and I realise that now is not the time to raise this subject. Instead I mutter repeated thanks.

‘Good day, Miss Hale,’ he says, clamping his hat back on his head and disappearing into the icy darkness.

‘I think I should throw myself on the mercy of the parish before asking for your help again,’ I say to the closed door, once I am safe out of his earshot. I half-expect him to burst through the door and ask what I mean by that, and I laugh nervously at my fantastical imaginings before taking myself to the kitchen to get up some kind of soup for Father’s supper.

The following day I wave him off to the convalescent home.

My Christmas might be ruined, but I have had the happy thought of contributing our unused bounty to those less fortunate. To this end, I visit the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker and sally forth towards the river with a large bundle of packages on a wheeled trolley.

The very air seems flecked with ice and the clouds are lower than ever as I turn into the familiar thoroughfares below Fleet Street. Women wave from upper windows, men smoking pipes on the corners nod at me and children playing in the alleys shriek greetings to me as I pass.

But as I descend further into the poorer streets, there is less cheer and more silent watchfulness as my trolley rolls and bumps over the slimy cobbles. The hairs begin to prickle on the back of my neck and then, heaven be thanked, the spire of St Botolph’s looms closer and I know I am safe.

Before I can bump my trolley up the steps to the vicarage, I am accosted by Sally Britten, running from the corner in her pattens before the crossing sweeper can clear her path.

‘Marianne,’ she gasps, ‘have you heard the news?’

‘I do not think so.’ I pull my trolley back and wait for her to reach me. ‘You have heard about Father’s illness?’

‘There was some talk; I meant to come and call on you but...’

‘What has happened?’ Sally is clearly beside herself and I worry that I am to be told of a death or a horrible accident of some kind, now, when I am so unequal to such news.

‘They are not closing the blacking factory for Christmas Day,’ pants Sally. ‘Everyone – man, woman, but mostly child, is expected to work the day, just as they would any other.’

‘Are you sure? That is...heathenish.’

‘Sure as I’m standing here, dear. Heard it from the lips of that devil Thornton himself as I was passing the gates. They’ve not met their targets for production, so all must work an extra day. That day being Christmas. Now we can’t let that pass, surely.’

I nod furiously, tugging my trolley behind me as I set off at a clip towards the blacking factory.

‘We surely cannot,’ I vow.


	5. Brief Encounter

The watchman at the factory gate is not keen to grant me or Sally access.

‘Got an appointment, ladies?’ he asks, looking us up and down with impudence born of a certainty that we do not.

‘No, but Mr Thornton will see me,’ I state, attempting to exude calm confidence. ‘We are well acquainted. Kindly inform him that Marianne Hale wishes to speak with him on a matter of urgency.’

The watchman folds his arms, shaking his head.

‘Can’t do that, can I? I’d be deserting me post. If you don’t have an appointment I can’t let you pass. More’n me job’s worth, Miss.’

‘And are you happy to know that you will be standing there, in this very same freezing spot, all day of Christmas Day?’

He raises his eyebrows at me.

‘Begging your pardon, but that don’t strike me as any of your business, Miss.’ But his expression has taken a turn for the glum and I know I can coax him round.

‘That’s what I’m here to discuss with him,’ I say, my voice gentler, conspiratorial. ‘I want to speak on your behalf – on the behalf of all who work here – to plead for your Christmas Day. It is so wrong that you should all be made to work, and I mean to tell Mr Thornton so.’

The watchman lets out of a kind of exclamatory laugh, then he is quiet for a moment.

‘Well, Miss,’ he says. ‘I can only hope that you _do_ know the master well, for then you’ll make no mistake what you might be letting yourself in for. Can’t think of anyone around here who’d be game for trying to change that man’s mind, nor yet soften his heart.’

‘But if you would let me try...’

He sighs, and beckons at somebody beyond my field of vision, whereupon a small man in a greasy overall hastens across the yard towards the watchman.

‘What is it, Sid?’

‘Young ladies here to see the master. No appointment but this one reckons he’ll see her anyways. Can you go and tell him Miss...’

‘Hale,’ I confirm, my heart suddenly in my mouth. Of course he won’t consent to see us, and even if he does, the meeting will be doomed to failure. But Sally links her arm with mine, and the small gesture spurs me on.

‘Miss Hale and friend would like a quick word.’

‘I can try.’ The greasy-overalled man scuttles off and Sid bends towards us, his eyes shifty, making sure we are not overheard.

‘If you’re a friend of his,’ he mutters, ‘I wonder if I could ask you to put in a word for my brother, Jim Lewin. Won’t keep him on, says he hasn’t earned it, but Jim’s a good worker – nobody had a bad word to say about him under the last gaffer. Missis and six nippers at home. We’ll take them in if it comes to it, but it’s a hard way to start a new year, Miss. I wouldn’t ask but...’

‘Of course. I should say that I have very little influence but I will mention it. And if nothing comes of it, you must tell them to come to the Crown on Christmas Day to dine with Sally and I.’

‘You coming for Christmas then?’ squawks Sally in surprise.

‘Since I cannot be with Father, I thought to donate our Christmas trimmings,’ I tell her, smiling ruefully.

Sally’s pleased surprise is still making itself known when the greasy-overall man waves from the factory door.

‘Well I’ll be blowed.’ Sid looks impressed. ‘Seems you might have some clout with the master after all. I’ll let you through.’ He opens the high iron gates and ushers us on to the forecourt. ‘And thank you, Miss, for your offer. Might take you up on it yet.’

Once inside, following the greasy-overalled man through a warren of dark and noisome corridors, in which noise and clangour from another, unseen part of the building fills the air, I begin to wonder how on earth I intend to broach my subject.

Can it broached in such a manner as to soften his ear? And if so, can I maintain that manner without falling prey to indignation or temper? I have the strong feeling that indignation and temper will not impress Mr Thornton favourably. But then, how to remain calm?

It is a conundrum I am yet to solve, as Sally and I turn a corner to be faced by a large wooden door. At it, a man kneels, nailing a brass plate beside the handle. ‘G THORNTON, MANAGER’.

‘Beg your pardon,’ he grunts, as our guide knocks and then opens the door.

We pass him and find ourselves in a large and handsomely appointed office, at the back of which is a window which looks out on to a vast, black space in which small, thin bodies teem about their work.

At first I do not see Thornton, but he appears suddenly from beside a corner cabinet, a bottle in hand.

‘Miss Hale,’ he says, his face expressionless – but even without expression it has the power to intimidate and I steel myself. ‘And a friend, I see.’

‘This is Mrs Sally Britten, the landlady of the Crown.’

‘Ah, the Crown,’ he says, retiring behind a huge desk and placing the bottle atop it, next to a salver and two glasses. ‘A place where my employees spend altogether too much time.’

I feel Sally stiffen at my side but she tries to honey her words when she replies, ‘No more than they can afford, sir.’

‘I doubt that,’ he says, curling his lip. ‘I’ll have Brenton fetch another glass – I had not expected our party to be three.’

He seems put out by this, banging on the desk until his subordinate appears and is put to his task.

‘We did not expect hospitality,’ I mention, watching the man rummage in a walnut cabinet. ‘You are too generous. We merely came to make petition.’

Thornton looks up, his eyes so deadly serious that I almost take a step back.

‘Are you involved in some way in the blacking trade?’ he asks, pouring a rich burgundy liquid into the glasses.

‘You know that I am not,’ I reply. ‘But I am a friend to many in these streets...’

‘If you have no business with me, then I fail to understand how I can help you.’ says Thornton flatly, offering me and then Sally a glass. Sally takes hers eagerly, but I hold back.

‘It is not me who requires your help,’ I tell him. ‘But I have come to speak on behalf of all those who work for you.’

‘They work for Vaisey,’ he says, pressing the glass into my hand. I take a sip – it is warm and fruity. ‘I am the manager.’

‘And, as the manager, you do no more than carry out Vaisey’s orders?’ I suggest, hoping – for reasons I can scarcely comprehend – that this might be true.

‘I am not his lackey,’ he replies with asperity, and I surmise that I have wounded his masculine pride. ‘Any praise or blame for the management of this factory must be attributed to me. But pray, Miss Hale, do me the goodness of explaining your reasons for coming here, and in as few words as you can muster.’

He sits, his jaw set, his hands clasped upon his chest, as unapproachable as any man I have ever laid eyes on.

‘Two days from now is Christmas Day,’ I say, steadying my voice and my gaze as far as I am able.

‘I am obliged to you for the reminder,’ he replies dryly. ‘What of it?’

‘I am given to understand that, despite the season, you will not grant your workers the holiday.’

‘Once more, Miss Hale, they are not _my_ workers. But you have not heard false. The factory will be open upon that day.’

I put down my glass and make sure my shoulders are square.

‘Mr Thornton, allow me to appeal to your better nature,’ I begin, cutting him off when he seems to want to interrupt with an earnest, ‘I know you have one. I have seen it.’

But I can cut him off no longer.

‘I have heard enough, Miss Hale. I will brook no interference in my running of this business. Your suggestions will be noted when they have the endorsement of Mr Vaisey, and not before. I suggest we curtail this waste of my time and yours and put an end to this discussion. Brenton!’

His overalled employee returns emerges from a corner.

‘Show these ladies out.’

‘But Mr Thornton, I must entreat you-‘

But he will hear no more. He stands and turns his stormy visage away from us, facing instead the window on to his underaged, overworked worker bees.

‘You will hear me on this,’ I vow, as I am ushered from the office, but he makes no reply, and without further ado Sally and I find ourselves unceremoniously escorted from the premises.

‘Any luck?’ asks the watchman, trying to conceal his eagerness as we retrieve our trolley of festive fare from his safekeeping.

‘Not yet,’ I tell him, smiling grimly. ‘But if you will spread word that we are meeting tonight at the Crown after the final whistle, we will see what can be done.’


End file.
